


Living in a Window

by doctorcolubra



Category: Silicon Valley (TV)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Jared's condo, M/M, Post-Episode: s05e05, Richard's self-loathing, compliments, only about as slashy as the actual show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 02:56:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14416173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorcolubra/pseuds/doctorcolubra
Summary: Post-"Facial Recognition".  Richard reflects on the unforgiving nature of the camera, mankind's cruelest invention, and tries to help repair Jared's self-image.





	Living in a Window

**Author's Note:**

> This happened by accident; [mare-bare](http://mare-bare.tumblr.com/post/173213732595/all-i-want-now-are-non-sexual-fics-about-richard) on tumblr commented that this was something deserving deeper scholarship in fic form, and I concurred.

There’s a photo of Richard in college that haunts him sometimes. Not a flattering photo, not an interesting photo, just an extant photo. Part of the historical record. In fact, it’s really a picture of somebody else standing in front of Richard, a girl with long dark hair. He doesn’t remember her name, never knew her well, but someone said _smile_ and Richard zapped back to attention in a panic, and smiled. These were the last days of film cameras, and the lighting was strange in a way that phone pictures aren’t. There were mistakes of developers that could taint your memory of something forever. Even the way you remembered yourself.

 

“…And a double, and—upside down—and that one’s nice, look at your hair, oh my God. Next is—oops. That one’s not really of you.”

“Who is it?”

“The guy who sits over…oh hey!” The girl in the row ahead of him looked up and smiled at Richard. She leaned over to hand him the pair of identical pictures from the envelope she was looking through. “Troy got you by mistake, the other day.”

Richard was zoned out. It’s a theme. He sat up as sharply as if poked, already stumbling out apologies. “What—sorry, um—yeah, sorry, I didn’t mean to get in the way—oh no. Yikes.”

“No, it’s nice,” she said, consoling but inattentive, turning back to her friends.

 _Attempt:_ Smile winningly, like a good sport, like a cool guy.

 _Result:_ Spasmodic. Bad sport, uncool.

He tried to leave the ugly pictures facedown on the long table they shared, but the girl didn’t notice, and didn’t take them. Richard was forced to put them in his own binder, stuffed behind some handouts in the pocket, and to never, ever, forget the grilling shame of this moment. 

_Composition:_ Below left, the long dark tresses of a young woman, or perhaps a single tress, washed out to silvery taupe, every single split end sticking up and glittering like hoarfrost in the flash. Centre, accidentally perfectly clear, one Richard Hendricks, garbed in the traditional hoodie of his people.

 _Errors:_ Red-eye, poor focus, subject too close, overexposed, lens flare.

There is a sickly play of colours in Richard’s face, white and a pink the shade of hives. The red pupils have that hollow look they sometimes get, not Satanic but rather empty, like a sharp shaft of light falling from above inside a tunnel. That pop-eyed expression, eyelids open by exactly a millimeter too much.

And there’s the obsequious nerd smile, tight as piano-wire, a submissive wince. _Please don’t hurt me I’m harmless._ It’s instinct now, smile and apologise, smile and apologise. He might die with this expression. People think that’s what he’s really like.

All that’s circumstantial. But what about the structural problems?

He’s a lipless skull. It’s not worth fighting with the hair. There’s this colourless mole on his right cheek that suddenly stands out, like actually _casting a shadow_ , like warts on Quasimodo. The full rigging of his nose is on display, from the pointed stern to the high prow, and frankly, it looks like a special effect. Like theatre makeup. It’s a Nicole Kidman as Virginia Woolf nose.

But the worst is that he looks hungry. Not only underweight, although he is, probably. There’s an uncomfortable avidity in his eyes, or at least that’s how it reads—Richard looks at things intently, or else he conspicuously doesn’t look at them. Normal eye contact, a low bar he can’t clear. Every single minor bodily function that you would think just comes standard and that can’t be right or wrong, Richard still manages to get them wrong. 

Jared has complimented Richard’s eyes often enough that he’s reluctantly concluded that they’re probably his best feature. The colour’s okay. He used to be the only guy in his math seminar who didn’t wear glasses. 20/20 vision, baby. That’s something. The eyes are oddly-set, almost too far apart, and even though they’re the only ornaments in this Late-Gothic-at-best face, the intensity spoils it. He looks like he’s barely holding back from crying.

And Richard goes through all these mental movements every time he sees this picture again (looking for something else in a bookcase). Every time, it takes him that long to register this one fact about the image: 22-year-old Richard Hendricks was very, very sad. And unattractive, but mostly sad.

 

He thinks that was the year he ended up in the ER twice, but he’s not sure. But it wasn’t just limited-trial depression, it was the full-price professional version. He has bar codes of scars all up and down his arms that he doesn’t even notice anymore—parallel lines and angry scribbles—but at Hooli a woman was visibly taken aback one day when he wore a t-shirt. _Honey, my youngest does that too, it’s okay. But don’t let people see that stuff, because it can hurt your career._

So the hoodies became a rule, rather than a habit. No short sleeves.

 

“When was the last time you ate?”

“I dunno. Yesterday.”

The nurse gives an almost inaudible _uh-huh_ as she writes this down on her intake form. “Why aren’t you eating?”

“I guess I don’t have time.”

“Why not?”

“School. My coding project. Music.”

 

It’s not that he’s flunking. He’s having real experiences in school, that’s all. Richard likes angular drums, tight parping 60's retro-funk brass, complicated time signatures, cult favourites, being a well-known fixture on the A.V. Club comments sections, and artists with fans in the low double digits. He goes to shows every week, where he would arrive at 9 p.m. to sit in the corner and watch the soundcheck, not moving from that corner until the lights go off. Drink alone, but surrounded by people. Go home with his ears ringing, drifting off in the stupid algebra 8:30. Music broke his heart, music hurt his grades. Music's the reason he never really understood integrodifference equations.

 

When you’re ugly and you know it, clap your hands—just kidding, never approach anybody else ever. Richard doesn’t know how to make friends, even in tiny music scenes that are designed to connect every orcish nerd in a given area. He probably could have been well-liked, if he wasn’t so scared all the time. When people say anything nice to him, it’s coated in pity or irony.

Which brings us to Jared. Richard’s the worst person in the world to try to console anyone else about their appearance. He simply doesn’t know how sincere compliments are constructed. What if he says something he really means, like _are you kidding, how could you think you’re ugly_ or like _I don’t understand how your hair’s so good_ and it ends up sounding weird or hostile or fake or? _Or?_ It could all go wrong in so many ways. He can’t do it.

But Jared is fucked up about this, and everybody else is treating him like the Elephant Man, so Richard goes to the doctor with him and picks up Cambodian food, which they eat together at home. At Jared’s condo, that is.

“Jared, c’mon, I’m the expert on bad noses here,” he says, gaze directed down at his plate of tofu with pineapple. “Yours is fine.” 

Jared’s eating very delicately around his swollen lips, an icepack sitting next to him. “Do you really think so?”

“Yeah. Like, it’s a totally normal nose. I think it’s pretty nice, in fact.” _Nice_ isn’t a very persuasive word, so Richard tries to quantify it. “Um. Firm. You know? Good shape to it.”

“It looks so glaring, to me. Massive. But what are you talking about, Richard, you’re not the ‘expert on bad noses,’ don’t be silly.”

“Jared, no, this isn’t about me. I’m realistic, okay? I look however I look.”

“I still don’t understand what you don’t see in yourself,” says Jared. “You’re really quite a striking figure.”

“I strike people as hideous, sure.”

“I just don’t think that’s true. Naturally curly auburn hair, blue eyes, classic English rose complexion—you’re like the hero of a Regency romance. That’s what I thought when you were still wearing the bandages from falling through the window, actually. Quite raffish. Like you’d been in a duel.”

“Jared…” It’s outrageous flattery. It’s not even subtle. If Jared weren’t so honest, this would be bootlicking. But Jared’s not a bootlicker; he has a backbone, at least sometimes, and yet he chooses to bow. Richard can never quite get his head around it. “That’s…come on, man. Like, that’s…you know that’s not _real_ , right?”

Jared’s deflated a bit, and he says, “What do you mean?”

“This kind of stuff you say about me.” Richard’s meeting his eyes now. “Like that I’m your Captain and I’m so wonderful. You know that’s not true. You know I’m not…just. Objectively. I’m not any of that stuff. Right? This is, like, it’s an inside joke between us.”

“You think I’m _joking_?” Jared says, quietly appalled, setting his fork down.

“No—” Richard can instantly tell he’s said the wrong thing, and he tries to pull back. “No, I don’t—I meant, like, we’re friends, we like each other, we like to goof around, and—and you goof on me by acting like I’m so much better than you. Right? That’s what we do. We’re funny.”

Jared brings the icepack back up to his swollen mouth, sitting back in his chair. They have _A Series of Unfortunate Events_ on in the background, since Jared said he finds it relatable rather than triggering, and for a second there’s no sound but the TV. “Funny. All right.”

“Sorry. Fuck. Sorry, man.” 

“Not at all. Please. I’m sorry to have come across like that,” says Jared, muffled by the washcloth full of ice. 

This is going to burn Richard alive if he doesn’t fix it. “I didn’t mean that I don’t like it when you say that stuff,” he tries. “It seems so impossible to me that someone like you would really think I’m that great. Because you’re…like we’re a Goofus and Gallant cartoon come to life, man. You’re so much better than me that it isn’t funny. You’re taller, you’re kinder, you’re good at way more things than I am, you keep this condo fucking _spotless_ and you’re like—like this cosmic god with a hundred arms who magically gets a million things done every day. Okay? I can’t measure up to that. I guess I don’t say it often enough but I…” Bottleneck. Several options to finish this scary sentence. Choose the safest one. “I think the world of you, Jared. And physically, I mean, forget about it.”

“Really?” Jared’s face is damp from the ice pack’s condensation; unclear if from other sources. “What do you mean, forget about it?”

“Like, it’s not even a thing you should worry about,” Richard says, looking back down at his food again. “You have great hair. And it looks even better the less you do with it, which is…a miracle. Pianist hands. Your jawline's really strong but not in a meathead sort of way, you know? It’s more…graceful. You have the nicest smile, and your lips turn down at the corners, which—I never knew anyone else who had that, so now in my head it’s this Jared thing. That I like to see. It’s good. Your face is good.”

Jared laughs to himself, shakes his head and picks up his fork again. “Just when I think I have you all figured out, Richard Hendricks,” he says, in that corny romcom way, and he smiles that smile before he goes back to eating.

 

Richard has to remind himself to do it. He doesn’t naturally think to tell other people what they look like— _don’t they know?_  But they don't. Apparently. 

When you’re ugly and you know it, nobody wants you to compliment them. It tends to feel like a sick joke or pathetic brown-nosing. So Richard has to convince himself that Jared doesn’t belong to _everybody_ or _nobody._ Jared is an individual human who (for whatever reason) wants to hear this stuff out loud, in words, and it’s not so much for a friend to ask. Richard keeps a txt file on his laptop full of genuine compliments for Jared. This way he can add to it whenever something comes to mind, and he won’t blank out when he’s trying to be nice. The method is slightly artificial, but he means it all anyway. It’s the least he can do.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [tumblr!](http://doctorcolubra.tumblr.com/)


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